Faramir Fiction Archive

A Twisted Tale (NC-17)

Written by Minx

29 November 2011 | 4154 words | Work in Progress

A Twisted Tale – Part 1: Leaving Gondor

Rating: NC-17, Faramir/Various, definitely incomplete

Notes: This is basically a set of double drabbles on the 50_darkfics prompts, using the theme of Faramir goes on the fellowship instead of Boromir. Also the rather lovely theme of Denethor whoring Faramir out to all and sundry, which of course translates very beautifully into everyone and everything having their way with poor dear Faramir.

It’s of course nowhere close to complete… and very very AU!

So here goes…a long rambling not very comprehensive or conclusive tale in double drabbles:)

Warnings: Slash, non-con, OOCs

Pairings/characters: Denethor, OMC/Faramir, Orcs/Faramir (past), Haldir/Faramir, Elf/Faramir, Théodred/Faramir, Éomer /Faramir, Gríma/Faramir, Théoden/Faramir, Saruman/Faramir, Elladan/Elrhoir/Faramir, Implied Gandalf/Faramir, Implied Aragorn/Boromir, imaginary Aragorn/Faramir, Nazgûl/Faramir, OMC/Faramir

Note: Please, please read and heed the description and warnings. This can get fairly crazy, quite mean, and not always nice to other favourite characters

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Part 1: Leaving Gondor

1.1 Dreams

Prompt 025. Destiny

The dream first came to him early in the summer during a rare afternoon nap. He woke breathing heavily, unsettled by the images he could recall – the beautiful, unfamiliar landscapes, gentle hills, rugged mountains, a long winding river. A strapping, young man, laughing eyes bright in the sunshine.

Then an inky blackness.

It came again days later. The warrior, clad in black and silver, laughing as he strode through long, bright green grass under clear, blue skies. Then a splatter of crimson. Then the blackness again

It came again within a week. This time he could see the arrows flying through the air.

And then again. The arrows struck the smiling warrior.

“Boromir!” a shrill voice cried.

The dread in his heart unabated, he sent to Osgiliath for Boromir.

Boromir arrived, with Faramir in tow, both speaking of a strange dream summons, each requesting to be allowed to journey north post haste.

He made the decision easily. Boromir, as Steward’s heir, was destined for great deeds for Gondor. Faramir was the spare. His greater deeds lay in the bedchamber so far. But there too, the new lad from the courtesan’s street, showed great promise, so Faramir could well be spared.

1.2 Never again

Prompt 055. Never

Faramir knelt naked on the floor in front of the older lord, reached for the already aroused flesh, and began kneading it.

“Take it in your mouth! Now!”

He obeyed instantly, running his tongue over the bulbous tip and lowering his lips onto the engorged length.

The man began thrusting into him immediately, and he felt himself pull away as always. Fingers grasped his hair promptly, pulling his head forward again.

“Faster!”

Unable to move, his lips strained, mouth aching he continued to work his way down the fat length.

Later that night, as he lay in bed, breathing heavily, the same fat length buried painfully deep inside him, the older lord suddenly ran his fingers through his hair, almost tenderly.

“You may not know,” he said softly, “But your father has found a new one.”

Faramir stilled.

“Most prefer him to you. He enjoys it, they say, and knows many ways of bringing pleasure. And he’s younger too, and beautiful.”

No wonder his father was amenable to sending him to Imladris. He would never have to do this again, he realised. He would never again be required to give his body for the good of Gondor.

He sighed gratefully.

1.3 The Choice

Prompt 073. Cry / tears

Faramir yawned tiredly, pushing open the door to his chambers, shrugging off his robes. A hot bath, then bed! He hardly had time to react when his arm was grasped roughly and he was shoved onto his bed.

“Boromir,” he gasped. His brother loomed over him, his usually smiling features marred by a huge scowl.

“How did you do it?” Boromir asked harshly, “You went to his bed, didn’t you?”

Faramir made to rise, confused, but Boromir’s hand clamped on his shoulder held him down. He was stronger and taller and within seconds he had Faramir pinned down, straddling his legs so he couldn’t move.

“Wh-who… what…?” Faramir stuttered.

Boromir glanced at his naked body in contempt. Faramir blushed. His nipples were reddened and his lower body littered with finger shaped bruises and dried semen.

Boromir grasped his limp member painfully.

“You seduced Father so he’d let you travel,” he raged.

Faramir shook his head, miserably.

“He needs you here,” he whispered brokenly, “Not me.”

Boromir’s expression changed – confusion, then anguished understanding clear in his brimming eyes. His grip loosened, and he made to rise.

Faramir pulled him close, and reached for his leggings. He would soothe his brother tonight.

1.4 Departure

Prompt 038. Outcast

Faramir left early one summer morning, unusually chilly, obscured by a dull mist. The city was quiet, still asleep. He set off alone on horseback for the far northern lands that none seemed sure even existed beyond Mithrandir’s tales.

Boromir was in Osgiliath, sent back days ago. They had barely had the time for a hurried farewell.

Denethor remained in his rooms, having spoken to Faramir the evening before.

Faramir had thanked him for the honour of letting him make this journey. Denethor had replied with an indictment of the retreat from Osgiliath, and instructions for his journey to Imladris, and his return too.

“It is not for the honour that I send you,” Denethor had scoffed, “I am sending you for Boromir and the other captains are needed here, unlike you. Your uses are few. The uses of this journey too seem few, weighed against its dangers.”

He had listened unhappily but without protest to the familiar words.

“Your lack of skill in the battlefield and your reluctance in the bedchamber are a constant source of embarrassment to me. But now there are far more capable people to replace you in all your tasks. You are unnecessary to Gondor.”

1.5 Fighting Orcs

Prompt 032. Past

Faramir collapsed to the ground breathing heavily. He was exhausted, bruised all over; his sword was broken, his bow had come unstrung and his arrows were all used up.

Yet there was enough to be thankful for. His horse stood unhurt, and he himself was untouched barring a few surface injuries.

Most importantly he had evaded capture by the orcs that had attacked him.

For he knew very well how he could fare, if captured. He had some years ago fallen into their clutches in Ithilien. It had been two days before the rangers could rescue him. They had stormed the orc camp at night, killed all of them, then undone the ropes that held Faramir’s half-conscious body in place; bruised and bleeding, pressed onto athe rough bark on a broken tree stump, legs and hands spread out and bound to other branches by thick ropes that had cut into his skin.

It had taken a month’s complete rest in Minas Tirith for the injuries to heal. The scars from their serrated whips still covered his back. And seared in his memory were Denethor’s words after the healers had listed out his injuries.

“Orc whore!” he had spat out contemptuously.

1.6 Elves and arrows

Prompt 011. Weapon

Faramir stumbled upon the elf camp one misty evening, after wandering lost through woods for days.

He stared in awe at them – tall, lithe, golden haired, clad in grey, carrying longbows. He had always been enamoured by elves, long seeking to meet one.

“Greetings,” he said, shyly.

“What do you want?” the taller asked curtly.

““Any arrows you’d spare; I’ve lost all mine to orcs,” he stuttered, “And d-directions to Edoras.”

“Why should we lend weaponry to you? We too have a perilous journey back to our land.”

“I have coin-,”

“We’re not dwarves, lad,” the younger scoffed.

“We find men unpleasant,” the tall elf’s eyes flashed with anger, “They seek to purchase or sell everything, even themselves.” Then amusement, “What would you pay, little man?”

Faramir stared at him numbly.

“But he’s dirty, Haldir,” the younger elf protested.

“All men are.”

They alternated with him, through the night; a turn for each arrow. The younger one rough, quick and hurtful each time. Haldir more hurtful, yet slower, deliberate and once, even teasing Faramir into a painful arousal before pulling out. Both mocked him repeatedly with words and tantalising actions.

They let him go at dawn with arrows and directions.

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